Lost Boys
by bethandbee
Summary: After a twenty year absence, Lionel McKinley appears at Kevin Price's front door. McKinley has a dark secret, and Price has a family. At nineteen, sustaining their relationship was difficult; today, it's near impossible - but more important than ever.
1. Chapter 1

_Trade baby blues for wide-eyed browns_

_I sleep with your old shirts and walk through this house_

_In your shoes  
><em>

_I know it's strange, it's a strange way of saying _

_That I know I'm supposed to love you_

* * *

><p>He awoke every morning in an empty bed.<p>

Every morning, without fail, his fingers stretched across the mattress and pressed not into warm flesh, but into smooth, cold fabric pulled taut over the place where another person once slept. And every morning, without fail, he withdrew his hands, pulled the covers up to his chin, and grinned from ear to ear. He was alone.

These were the moments he cherished the most, the few seconds a day when he was all alone, before anybody expected anything of him. He only had a few moments before diaper changes and grocery lists and long commutes, and his happy solitude never lasted long. Usually a dull crash sounded from the kitchen, or his BlackBerry twitched in its station on his nightstand, and he hauled himself up. He always left his side of the bed unmade.

The day everything changed began like any other.

A long, slow buzzing woke him up that morning, echoing from outside, from some neighbour's yard. He groaned, yawned, rubbed his eyes, and let his feet brush the cold hardwood. "Helen!"

He squinted in the harsh light that reflected at all angles from their white walls, their white sheets. "Helen!" he called again. "Did the Andersons say they were getting yard work done?"

He didn't get an answer – he wasn't expecting one. Sighing, he pulled his robe out of the closet, tied it around his waist, and grudgingly opened the bedroom door.

Over the course of sixteen years of marriage, Kevin had grown used to his wife's neuroses. She was up at five o'clock every morning, outlining new scenes for her latest novel in the neat files on her state-of-the-art Macbook. Most mornings, she answered fan-mail, returned telephone calls, took the dog for a walk, came back, and started breakfast before Kevin was even sentient. Helen Ashby Price was fiercely ambitious; whenever Kevin strode by her office, saw her blonde bun bobbing up and down in front of the keyboard as her fingers clattered noisily at the keys, he was reminded of that. It was why he had married her, after all.

Kevin's main contribution to their marriage and their household lay in his unique ability to swipe his travel mug and his packed lunch from the counter without missing a beat, to check his watch and his e-mails with a single downward glance, to tap out businesslike responses to clients while pecking his wife on the cheek. He was adept at ignoring Jack, squealing for sticky kisses in his high chair, adept at stepping over Luke's abandoned crayons instead of slipping on them. His mission in the morning was to shower, shave, dress, and get to work as quickly as humanly possible.

This morning, though, as he passed through the kitchen, scrolling through e-mails and reminders – _Matt's Eagle Scout meeting at 3, ribbon-cutting at noon, Marriott alumni luncheon next Tuesday –_ he felt a hand on his shoulder.

He glanced up, glanced back; Helen, her soft blonde hair up in the familiar bun. She had Jack balanced on her hip – their youngest, clad in plaid overalls.

"Kevin," she smiled, insistent.

He grinned, leaned down, and kissed her on the mouth. "Morning, bunny."

"Where are you off to today?" She pulled back abruptly, squeezed their son closer, and leaned over the stove to poke at the scrambled eggs.

"Funderland in Salt Lake," he answered, swigging down a glass of orange juice. "We're opening the new summer show today, and I-" he glanced sideways at Mark, busy downing cereal, "Hey, Mark, I get to cut the ribbon onstage with Cosmo the Cougar, isn't that exciting?"

"No way!" Mark shrieked, hopping up and down in his seat. "Can I come? Mom, can I go?"

Helen shook her head, grinning at their son. "No, sweetie. You have soccer camp with Luke."

Kevin shoved his BlackBerry into its leather holster and made for the door, taking a moment to nod at his wife. "Have a great day."

"Kevin," she arched her neck. "Do me a favour and pick Matthew up from Scouts at 5?"

"Will do," he shrugged. Closing the door behind him, he stepped out into a bright day and made for the family Escalade parked at the curb, glittering in the Sandy sunlight.

* * *

><p>"Elder Price!" Kevin's head darted up, and he leaned back into the thin wall.<p>

"Elder McKinley," he answered. "Good to see you. I'm just about done sweeping up this corridor – do you need me to start in the bedrooms?"

"No, no, you're doing a great job," the older man nodded. He looked nervous. "Listen, Elder Price, I need to talk to you."

Kevin glanced around nervously. "Not _now_, Elder McKinley. Elder Thomas and Elder Davis are in the next room."

"Nairobi," McKinley blurted out. "I talked to the mission president, I did, just now. He wants to see us, Elder Price. Next week. In Nairobi. I told him about all the work we've been doing, about the wells we dug – Elder Price, they might give us funding again."

"What?" Kevin let his broom fall to the floor with a noisy clatter. "Elder McKinley, that's fantastic!"

"Isn't it?" He grinned from ear to ear. "I want you to come with me, Elder. I don't have an official mission companion since Elder Church left last month. I could really use the help."

Kevin drew in a deep breath. "Just us, Elder?"

"Just you and I," McKinley said. He stepped back, nervously threading his fingers together. "I could... I could see about getting us, I don't know, a nice hotel for the couple of nights we'll be in Nairobi – it's probably safer than staying at the mission headquarters."

"Yeah, yeah, definitely."

"More private."

"Oh." Elder Price gasped under his breath. "Oh my goodness. You mean...?"

"Two days, Elder Price. Just us. We wouldn't..."

"We wouldn't have to hide."

"Exactly."

Elder Price swallowed hard, trying to suppress a broad grin."Well, Elder McKinley, I would be delighted to accompany you to Nairobi."

McKinley laid a hand on Kevin's shoulder, let it linger; it was a rare thing, touch, and dangerous. "It's an honour, Elder Price. Have a restful prep day, now. I'll go book the bus tickets."

McKinley turned and walked down the hallway, whistling a familiar tune to himself. A moment later, once the other elder had turned the corner, Kevin picked up his broom and continued sweeping as though nothing had happened.

Nobody saw him dancing with the broom, tracing curlicues through the settling dust.

* * *

><p>"Can't help feeling bad for the kid in the cougar costume on a day like today," Kevin panted, fanning himself as they rounded the ferris wheel.<p>

"You can say that again," said Severn. "I heard on the radio that this is the hottest July on Salt Lake record. And you know what, I think we're setting a couple records of our own. I mean, look around."

He gestured broadly at the teeming crowds, the hundreds of kids tugging on their parents' hands, the gaggles of teenagers texting each other in line. He and Severn had built something incredible; a ghost of a smile flitted on his face as he remembered the words of the guy who had sold them Funderland all those years ago.

"Remember when they said we'd never make any money off of Funderland, huh, Severn?" Kevin nudged his friend. "Guess Salt Lake City wanted another theme park after all."

"Got that right," Severn nodded. He glanced down at the BlackBerry in his palm. "Looks like they got Cosmo the Cougar all suited up. Let's run over to the stage real quick."

They'd gone all out this summer, throwing in new rides and renovating the bandshell. The ads for Funderland's Salt Lake Summer Spectacular had been running in the papers for months, along with a series of memorable TV spots that prominently featured Kevin and Severn in full cowboy garb. Helen, of course, had gleefully taped every ad, and the kids never tired of watching their dad make a fool of himself on cable TV. The embarrassment was well worth it, though, worth it for a day like today when it seemed as though all of Salt Lake City had gathered at the gates of his park.

The ribbon-cutting ceremony for the new bandshell went off essentially without a hitch. Cosmo the Cougar hammed it up for the crowd, and the kids went crazy at every roar and growl. Kevin and Severn, both anxiously checking their phones for the day's next big appointment, stepped off the stage after slicing the ribbon and posing for a couple pictures with Cosmo. The dancers took to the stage, and a noisy, electronic beat echoed over the heads of the crowd.

"Listen, buddy, I gotta run," Kevin yelled, looking down at his phone. "Matt's got Eagle Scouts at three and I promised Helen I'd be back in time to give him a ride."

"All right, Kevin, see you 'round. Remember we need to get those budget-"

"Yeah, I got it" Kevin interrupted. "You take care, now."

He clapped his friend on the back, slipped on his sunglasses, and took a final look back at the crowd, the stage.

The second he turned his head, everything screeched to a halt. The screaming crowds fell silent, the flashing lights went out; Kevin didn't feel the wind, swirling in dusty currents around his feet. He felt only a dull, pulsating heat building in the pit of his stomach.

He was rendered blind, seeing only movements and shadows, traces of the men and women dancing on stage. And even though he was blinking back darkness, he saw the unmistakable figure downstage left, and he knew. A pair of blue eyes. A head of hair, shocking red. Movement, fluid; something familiar stirred inside of him.

He would recognize Lionel McKinley anywhere.

* * *

><p>If only he'd known then how moments would turn to days, months, years, how time would pass and he with it.<p>

He fell every night, exhausted, into an empty bed, fully aware of the woman downstairs and the glow of the screen that kept her company as she worked until dark turned to light. They put on a damn good show, he realized. She was a constant presence, reliable and dependable, smiling on his arm in the papers. And he made a good footnote on her back flaps, beneath her airbrushed headshot and _Helen Ashby Price _stamped in gold filigree. Every one of the millions of teenage girls who wept over Helen's sugary prose would reach the end of the novel to find the proclamation that Helen Ashby Price lived in Sandy, Utah with her devoted husband and their four children.

And here he was, alone. Here he was, reeling, half an hour out of town on the dusty desert highway. Here he was, unable to focus on the road, unable to concentrate on anything but the burning of Lionel McKinley's blue eyes into his for the first time in twenty years.

He pulled over to the side of the highway. He stopped. He watched the clouds of dust settle around his Escalade, twisted the key into the ignition. He... he...

He was nineteen again, perched awkwardly at the foot of a mattress that was not his own in a city unfamiliar to him. The air in the room was cold – expensive – but he was warm, sticky and sweaty from a long day navigating Nairobi's busy streets.

There were those eyes again, searing, intense beneath pale eyelashes. He was so close, so incredibly close; Kevin found himself trembling as the older man took his hand, pressed it gently to the mattress in the thin gap between their thighs. Kevin hesitated – he wanted this – he wanted to sit – he wanted him, all of him – he wanted to sleep. Still, that steady gaze, that firm grip on his hand. McKinley was stability; he was frenzy.

"Are you..." came his shaky whisper, "Are you sure?"

"Never surer," Lionel said. With all the measured anticipation of a man who had been contained far too long, he leaned even closer, let his forehead rest on Kevin's.

"Can I...?"

Kevin tilted his head upwards, answering Lionel's question with a tentative kiss. He pulled back, shyly searching Lionel's eyes for approval. The other man only grinned back; Kevin let a nervous chuckle past his lips.

"Sorry, that was the first time I've ever..."

"_Shh_," Lionel whispered, and gripped Kevin's head in his hands, running his fingers through Kevin's hair. "It was perfect. You... you're perfect."

A screeching horn brought him back to reality, and he sighed, leaning his head against the glass and watching countless cars roll by on the highway. Time to turn the key in the ignition, drive the few minutes to Sandy, pick up his perfect, Eagle Scout, son, cut his perfect, emerald-green lawn, kiss his perfect wife.

"Perfect," he coughed. "You screwed me up, Leo."

Kevin sighed, quietly thumbing the keys in his hand. "Couldn't just leave me alone, could you? You had to come back and..."

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and slid the keys into the ignition. These were worries for another day. He had to get home. Over his dead body was his kid going to be late for another Eagle Scouts meeting on account of him.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading. I hope to have the next chapter up within the next week; I'm planning, at this point, to publish about ten chapters. Please leave a review - I'd love to hear what you think!<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

_Can you lie next to her_

_And give her your heart, your heart_

_As well as your body?_

_And can you lie next to her_

_And confess your love, your love_

_As well as your folly?_

* * *

><p>He felt her weight in the bed and his bleary eyes fluttered open, glancing desperately around for a clock. Nearly three o'clock in the morning – late, even by Helen's standards.<p>

"Helen," he mumbled, turning to face his wife. "Did you just come to bed?"

She turned onto her side, sighing audibly. Her hair was spread out on the pillow, silvery-blonde from the pale moonlight coming through the window. She looked anxious, pensive.

"Kevin, I'm honestly so sorry," she whispered in reply, turning her face to stare glumly at him. "I hope I didn't wake you."

"You know you should get more sleep," he said, still quiet. "It's not good for you to get to bed this late."

"I swear, as soon as I finish this re-write..."

"You've been stuck on this draft for a while, haven't you?" said Kevin, propping himself up on his elbow. "Doesn't Little, Brown – what was it, what did they say they wanted?"

"A more positive female role model," Helen sighed in exasperation. "Apparently, they've been getting complaints about my books, saying that I write weak female characters and that I should butch them up to make all the bra-burning feminists happy. You saw that scathing little sidebar in last week's _Time._"

"Liberals," sighed Kevin, leaning forward to kiss his wife's furrowed forehead. He thought hard, tried to remember the last time she had gone to bed with a smile on her face, and sighed. It had been a long time. Too long.

"Oh, and here's the kicker," she said, too preoccupied to notice the movement of Kevin's lips from her forehead to her cheek, "I am, apparently, pushing a dangerous religious agenda, and they're making me cut down on the references to Emma and Jasper's purity rings. I mean, honestly, not only is their commitment to purity integral to the story, it's also fundamentally... oh, _Kevin_."

He had rounded the curve of her jawline and was planting frantic kisses up and down her neck. Was that a moan he heard from the back of her throat? Had he elicited that reaction? He drew in a deep breath. "What about the purity rings, Helen?"

She sighed, massaging her temple. "This entire new series is supposed to serve as an allegory for the sanctity of marriage. They're asking me to cut a symbol that is fundamental to that allegory."

"Mmhmm," Kevin mumbled from beneath the blankets.

"This new publishing outfit is entirely too liberal. I wish that going back to Deseret were a financially viable option – no, scratch that, they had their own management problems. I should just up and start my own imprint. I could do it, too. You know I could."

She paused, reaching under the blankets and fumbling to find her husband's shoulder. "Kevin, come on. Stop that. Not tonight. I'm too tired."

Kevin moved from under the blankets, bringing himself up to face his wife. He was exhausted already, and Helen's looking out for number one wasn't helping. _Relax, _he wanted to say. _Take your top off_, he wanted to say. _It's been two months; I've been counting. _"I'd be all in favour of you striking out on your own, but Little, Brown's given you this plum contract, sweetie."

"It's never been about the money for me. I just want to – oh, I love it when you do that – I just want to tell teenage girls, you know, in this sex-saturated society, that it's okay to be abstinent. That's always been the purpose of my writing, Kevin, and I couldn't care less about – Kevin, oh, Kevin, that feels so good."

"More money means more exposure," Kevin said, running a hand through his wife's hair. She looked as anxious as ever, even now, flushed as she was. He let out a frustrated sigh, moved in closer, gently massaging her shoulders. "Write what the publisher wants to hear, hit paydirt, wait for Disney to option the series, and then preach abstinence all you want. Heck, start your own imprint. You could do it. Easy."

"But it's so hard!" she whined insistently. "Every single profile, every article, without fail – oh, Kevin, don't stop, don't you dare stop – they all go, 'Mormon housewife, Helen Ashby Price' or 'mother of four, Helen Ashby Price' like I'm just some ... Susie... Homemaker..."

"And then the obligatory..." Kevin drew in a deep breath, his movement becoming more rapid, "sidenote about your, your business degree and your self-made millions."

"Yes!" Helen shrieked, banging a fist against the headboard. "I went to BYU! BYU Marriott, for heaven's sake! I majored in marketing! Marketing! I had job offers from four of the Big Six by the time I graduated! Four, Kevin! Four!"

"Four!" Kevin laughed, burying his nose in the warm, soft skin of her neck.

"Four... of... six!" Helen's words fell between breathy pants. "Penguin and HarperCollins! And... and Random House! Simon & Schuster, Kevin! Simon! &! Schuster! I published my first novel when I was twenty-one, had my first appearance on the New York Times Bestsellers List the next year. Housewife, my foot! I was on Oprah! OPRAH!"

With one final yelp, she collapsed on the pillow, breathing heavy and hard. "Wow," she inhaled. "Kevin, you're just so... you're so... you're so right."

Kevin looked down at Helen, watching her chest rise and fall as she panted. "That felt..." he gasped for breath, twinges of triumph exploding all over his body, throughout his mind. "That felt all right for you?"

"Oh, just you wait, Kevin,"she said, flashing him a wide grin. "I'll navigate this deal with Little, Brown, knock those imbeciles down a few pegs. I'm getting this book on the shelves _my _way. Disney will be knocking down my door to option it. And then I can think about starting my own publishing outfit – not as staunch as Deseret, but wholesome, definitely wholesome, and I'll find some way to circumvent all this demonic paranormal stuff that has just _saturated _the market..."

Kevin screwed his eyes shut and exhaled deeply. He had forgotten that, as busy as it was living under her roof, her pillow talk was exhausting.

Maybe that was why they hadn't had sex in months.

"Good for you, sweetie." He interrupted her rant. "Let's get some sleep.

"Sure," she nodded. "I have to be up early for a conference call with the editors in New York, just so you know."

"All right," Kevin said. "Good night."

He rolled over onto his side, more full of doubt and worry than he had been before she'd come to bed. It had been so long, too long, since she'd let him touch her. Something wasn't there. The woman he had married – _she _was not there. She was all metal, cold steel.

He turned his head back, forcing himself to watch her chest rising and falling as she lay awake. His Helen had disappeared, years ago, and taken a part of him with her. It was a truth he didn't particularly like to confront. Her anxiety was contagious.

* * *

><p>He often found her like this, folded like a paper crane into her rocking chair, hand over knee. She would wait there for hours on end, vacant, her eyes blank. The gentle pink of the walls reflected on her face, colouring her with soft light.<p>

"Helen," he would say, barely above a whisper. "It's not good for you to be in here."

She would only hum in response, and pull her knees closer to her face. She was no longer sad, no longer angry; only defeated. He would sigh, cross the floor, and lay a hand on her shoulder; she would close her eyes and whisper.

"Please go."

* * *

><p>Kevin strode through the private lot, shades on. It was entirely too hot for the suit and tie he was wearing, and he had entirely too much dignity to be swinging a bag of McDonald's at his side, but dirty laundry and burnt toast were just sad facts of life on the mornings when Helen sat, catatonic, in the empty nursery. Sighing, he threw his left hand over his shoulder and locked his Escalade with the click of a button.<p>

As he was opening up the gate, he heard the long, drawling whine of a pair of worn brakes and turned to see a broken-down Subaru the colour of smoker phlegm pulling into the private lot. He looked back in time to see a door swing open and a familiar head of red hair emerge from the open doorway.

Kevin swallowed briskly and turned on his heel. He walked quickly, the greasy paper bag slapping noisy, wet, and conspicuous against his thigh. He heard his name, stiffened, and walked faster. He felt like he was hitting a brick wall. That was the first truly sleepless night he'd suffered through in a long time. Last time he ever tried to touch his wife.

"Kevin!" Lionel McKinley's distinctive voice, an old record spun for the first time in twenty years.

He was running now, Kevin realized, his stiff leather soles pounding against the pavement with hard clicks. Kevin quickened his pace, hitting a full tilt and adjusting his shades. He would be cavalier, calm, cool, collected. The other man was headed for the bandshell, he reasoned, and he was headed for a quiet morning in his air-conditioned office to sort out the season's funnel cake budget.

"Kevin Price!" the voice bellowed. "Kevin! Kevin, hold on, it's me! I-"

It was only when Kevin was behind the gate, only after he'd latched it shut and shoved the key deep into his left pocket, that he really realized his pulse had quickened along with his pace and that he was panting - sweating, even. He began to climb the stairs to the office lobby, noting that he could actually feel the movement of his heart in his chest. It was hammering against his ribcage, erratic, in double-time.

"Don't let him get to you," Kevin mumbled to himself, running harried fingers through his hair. "Don't talk to him, don't do it, don't go there. Just stop, stop..."

The elevator doors slid open, and Kevin flashed its occupants a toothy grin before striding in to take his place between a couple of secretaries. "Morning, ladies. Gorgeous day, isn't it?"

A soft, persistent tapping jolted him from sleep. Kevin's breath felt warm, sticky in his own mouth; the air was hot, and thick. He felt like he was inhaling and exhaling in a bubbling saucepan of boiling water. A slow blink revealed a stack of papers, blurry up close, and a distant stapler. He was suddenly aware of his hand, dangling lazily from the armrest of his ergonomic chair. He yawned deeply. Another knock.

Kevin moved slowly – not slowly enough for his aching muscles to quiet themselves, and he was really going to have to do something about that stabbing pain in his lower back – and allowed another loud yawn to escape.

"Kevin!" came the voice, muffled. It spoke from beyond the glass pane that separated Price from his denizens at Price Family Parks & Entertainment, Inc. Kevin rubbed his eyes, squinting in the harsh daylight that reflected off the glass. He saw Lionel McKinley's blurry silhouette waving enthusiastically. He waved back.

"Door's unlocked," he mumbled, and tried to sit up straight, tried to muffle another yawn, straightened out his tie and combed back his hair. The door clicked open; Kevin drew in a deep breath.

"Well, well, well," he smiled – _plastic, plastic, plastic_. "Look who it is. Been a while."

"Sure has."

He was more bashful than Kevin remembered, less flamboyant. Leo McKinley walked into President Price's office with his head hunched, his shoulders pulled tightly to his body. He wore sandals – socks and sandals! - khakis, a t-shirt in an indiscriminate beige. This was not – this man was not the same Kevin had known in Uganda. He was slow, thin, brittle, shy.

"Come on," Kevin insisted, waving at an empty chair. "Take a seat. You want a glass of water?"

"No, thank you. I'm all right," McKinley nodded, slipping tentatively into the chair. "I just thought I'd, you know, say hello. I've been meaning to drop by for a while, actually. I started – um, I'm dancing on the mainstage for the summer."

"Right," Kevin said, looking level into Leo's eyes. "I thought I saw you, actually, the other day when we opened the stage for the Summer Spectacular. We've had great numbers so far. Might be a record-breaking summer."

"Yeah, yeah, I figured. That's part of the reason I moved up here from Anaheim, actually?"

"Anaheim? You were working at-"

"The Disney parks, yeah."

"Must have been a lot of fun," Kevin chuckled.

"Oh, definitely. I was working with a few of the stage shows – they had me playing a lot of the characters. I was – oh, I was an adult Simba, I was Mulan's pet dragon, I was two or three of the princes." Kevin watched, amused, as Leo ticked the roles off on his fingers. "Buzz Lightyear, too. That was my absolute _favourite._"

"Well, that sounds like all kinds of fun," he answered, a broad smile still plastered across his face. "So, what brings you up to Utah? I mean, we've got a lot going for us, but we're certainly no Disneyland."

Leo fidgeted in his seat, still holding Kevin's gaze. Kevin watched Leo furrow his brow, lick his lips in contemplation. "I thought you might ask me that," Leo finally said, "I guess I just needed a change of pace, and Salt Lake's beautiful in the summer. I mean, it's not a permanent move, but I just got out of a relationship and I really needed to take a breather."

"You – just got out of a..." Kevin stammered, suddenly embarrassed that he had decided to speak. "A relationship, right, with your...?"

Kevin turned his head to the wall, drummed his fingers against the desk, and concentrated his stare intently on a a spot on the wall. McKinley spoke a moment later, quiet.

"Boyfriend."

"Wow." Kevin's response was instant, and he screwed his eyes shot, mentally kicking himself. "Oh. I'm – I'm sorry, Leo – Lionel, I'm sorry. That must be rough."

"Thanks."

Kevin opened his eyes, tilted back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling. Any semblance of indifference he'd tried to fake was gone now. Lionel McKinley, newly single, was sitting five feet away from him. Lionel McKinley, cowering in meek beige to mourn the loss of his boyfriend. Heck, Lionel McKinley had shacked up with a boyfriend, and here he was... here he was...

"I guess I should let you go. You look pretty busy." Lionel McKinley, apologetic. "I should head back to the bandshell. They'll be warming up for the matinee pretty soon."

"Yeah," Kevin mumbled, shooting a glance at his guest.. "Yeah, okay."

"Look, I'm sorry, I really am," Lionel said, leaning back into his chair and screwing his eyes shut. His hands curled into angry fists, his face contorted with guilt as though he'd committed some kind of terrible transgression. "I shouldn't have even come by. I'll just let you get back to your work."

"Sure," Kevin answered. "Take care."

McKinley stood, backing up towards the door. He hesitated with one hand on the knob. "It's good to see you again, Kevin."

He didn't answer. The door clicked shut, and Kevin let his face fall flat against his desk.

He had a wife at home, and four kids, and a lawn, and a couple of goldfish.

And yet Lionel McKinley – _his Leo –_ had moved all the way from Los Angeles to Salt Lake City, all the way from a _boyfriend –_ and Kevin still hadn't recovered from that shocking bit of news – and Kevin found himself unable to shake the feeling that it was all because this shy new man in eggshell and taupe thought it was good to see him again.

Kevin closed his eyes, still bleary, and prayed for years of sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>So sorry for the delay, everybody! My schedule has been pretty hectic, but rest assured that I am still writing this story - and loving it. Thank you for all your feedback so far, and please feel free to let me know what you think!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

_I know we don't live here anymore_

_We bought an old house on the Danforth_

_She loves me and her body keeps me warm_

_I'm happy here_

_But this is where we used to live_

_Broke into the old apartment_

_Tore the phone out of the wall_

_Only memories, fading memories_

_Blending into dull tableaux_

_I want them back_

* * *

><p>"So, let me get this straight – he was looking at a Playboy?"<p>

Helen let out a long whine.

"Kevin, I don't think you understand. This is a disaster – I feel like I just witnessed a car wreck, I feel like I'm, like I'm on a lifeboat watching the Titanic go down, and it's just sinking, and I can't do anything."

"Helen, honey, I realize you're upset, but you really need to calm down. Can we just talk about-"

"He was touching himself, Kevin!" Helen shrieked. She paused, closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. "I just walked in. I just walked in, and I wanted to ask him if he wanted – if he wanted cookies and milk, and he was, he was holding that filthy magazine in one hand and... and..."

She let out a sharp, exasperated cry and thrust her leg forcefully into her desk chair.

Kevin watched, spellbound, as it toppled and fell to the floor. His wife stood, her chest heaving with laboured breath, next to the fallen chair. He noticed the clutter on her desk, noticed a few empty spaces on her bookshelves, a few volumes lying on the floor, their pages bent haphazardly. He gritted his teeth, steeling his hands into frustrated fists.

"Have you been throwing your books around all day? Emptying our your drawers? Is this your new coping mechanism?"

"Shut up! Just shut up!"

"No! Calm down!"

"No, Kevin, I cannot _calm down_. Our eldest son was looking at... at smut, for heaven's sake, and _touching _himself! He should know better!"

"Well, maybe if his mother didn't shut herself in 24 hours a day, 7 days a week-"

"Right, right, this is just the next in my litany of failures as a mother. That should be my next book. It'd write itself, you know," she ranted, stooping down to right the chair she'd knocked over. "I can see it now: 'Helen Ashby Price: 21st-century Screw-Up!'"

"Shoot, Helen, no," Kevin said, stepping cautiously forward, "I'm... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. But don't you think you're overreacting? He's not the first teenage boy to experiment."

She moved away from him. His stomach turned as he noticed her hands falling away from her hair, noticed the blonde strands tangled between her fingers. She seemed to be occupying less and less space somehow, especially now, as she righted her office chair and stood, silent, with her back turned.

"I am not overreacting," she said, quietly. "I don't want to argue with you, Kevin. I can't. I can't do it. I – I love you. I just want to finish this book, and then get it published, and then sleep. I just want to sleep for a thousand years, Kevin. Have you ever been so tired?"

She turned to him, and he swallowed hard. Shadows were pooling, purple, in the dark circles under her eyes. She had the appearance of someone who had been punched in the face. Had she slept at all in the last month? Had she been eating, he wondered? Had she been taking her medication?

* * *

><p>Once upon a time, he remembered, Helen Ashby had been a force to be reckoned with. He remembered early mornings and late nights at business school, long lectures. He'd see her out of the corner of his eye, a blonde head bent over a notebook, furiously scribbling multi-coloured, cross-referenced notes on international trade, or throwing her hand into the air to challenge the professor on a salient point. He used to spend whole classes just watching her, bemused and a little awestruck. After midterms first semester, one professor recorded the names of the top five students on the chalkboard at the front of the auditorium. Five students out of five-hundred who had written the exam; "H. Ashby – 100%" topped the list.<p>

"You know," he had whispered to his deskmate "She would make a great Mrs. Price."

* * *

><p>"Would you just talk to Matthew?"<p>

"Of course I'll talk to him," he nodded. "You want to, uh, clean up in here and then maybe get dinner started?"

"Okay."

Quickly, quietly, he turned his back and stepped out of Helen's cluttered little home office. She never liked others to see her cry.

* * *

><p>"Well, maybe if you'd hold still for two seconds..." Kevin bit his lip, cautiously trying for the millionth time to push the pin through the stem of the flower and into his best friend's lapel.<p>

"Holy moly, I'm so nervous." He twitched suddenly, letting out a loud, anxious laugh. "You poked me _again_!"

"Stop moving. I think I actually have it this time. One second... there. You're good to go."

Arnold smiled, glancing down at the tiny bouquet on his lapel. Kevin stood back and watched as his friend looked himself over in the rusty mirror propped floor to ceiling in the corner of their room.

"This is it," he breathed. "As of-" Arnold shot a quick glance at his wrist - "one hour and seventeen minutes from now, I will be _Mr. Nabulungi Hatimbi_!"

Kevin couldn't help but grin. "Nabulungi's a lucky woman."

"Yeah, she is," Arnold answered. "No, no, wait, I mean, I'm lucky... no, but she's... she's the lucky one, I mean..."

"Don't knock yourself out, little buddy. You're both lucky. That's all there is to it."

"I just think – you know, what if we hadn't come to Uganda? What if I'd never met you, or what if we'd been assigned to Australia, or, like, Alderaan-"

"Not a real place, Arn."

"Right, duh, the Death Star blew it to smithereens. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that if I'd never come here, I would never have met her. And of all the millions of countries-"

"Arnold?"

"Hundreds of countries in the world, we got sent here. Together. And if we hadn't-"

"Things would have worked out a lot differently, that's for sure. At least we're back in with the mission president, huh? That's good."

Arnold let out a deep breath and sat down on the edge of his cot, leaning forward to balance his elbows on his knees. "We were thinking – we want to go to Salt Lake City for our honeymoon, I mean, not because I think it's anything special, but because Nitrogen really wants to go and see everything. And once we get our – what's that passport thing?"

"Green card?"

"Right, yeah. We'll move to Salt Lake. Or somewhere near there. And my parents are going to want to meet her..."

"They'll love her."

Arnold shot Kevin a sceptical look.

"Arnold," he sighed. He sat down on his cot, looking his friend straight in the eye. "They will love her, I promise you."

"They don't even love _me _that much. I don't – man, that sounds so bad. I just, you know, I came all this way to do my mission and it was just such a colossal – well, I don't want to say a waste, because it wasn't, it was _awesome –_but it definitely wasn't my dad's, you know, his definiton of awesome."

"Well – okay, keep this quiet - when Elder McKinley and I went to Nairobi last week to talk to the mission president, he said he was willing to give some of our funding back. And you know what that means."

"No way. _No_ way."

"Everybody here will get a signed letter saying 'Congratulations, you finished your mission.' All we have to do is get back in the mission president's good books. And we're well on our way, let me tell you."

"Kevin!" Arnold practically leaped across the floorboards, smothering him in an enormous hug. "You're kidding, you're kidding. I get to take Nickelodeon home? My parents won't hate me?"

He continued to ramble with his head buried in Kevin's shoulder, and Kevin just laughed.

"You're going to marry this girl, Arnold. You're going to take her home to Salt Lake City. You're going to have a big, beautiful family, and... oh, boy, here come the waterworks."

His voice caught suddenly, and he found himself struggling to continue talking. He cleared his throat, took in a shaky breath.

"You're going to be so happy," he finally managed to choke out.

"Kevin?" Arnold drew back. "Are you – are you okay?"

"I – I'm just happy for you, that's all."

"No, no," Arnold pulled back, shaking his head. "Something's up. You're not telling me something."

Kevin's eyes darted around the room, and he grabbed Arnold's tie, pulling his friend close to him.

"If I tell you, then you cannot tell _anybody_," he said, barely above a strangled whisper.

"Tell anybody wh-"

"_Shh_!" Kevin interrupted. "Nobody, not even Nabulungi."

"Geez, Kevin, did you kill someone? Oh no, you killed someone?"

"What are you talking about? No, it's – it's Leo. Elder McKinley," he stammered.

"You _killed Elder McKinley_?"

"No! And quiet down!" Kevin let go of Arnold's tie. "Remember what you said when you said when-"

"Murder is a sin, Kevin."

"I didn't kill Elder McKinley, Arnold. No, when you proposed to Nabulungi, you said that you loved her and she just said, 'I know?' That was – that was beautiful, Arnold, and it made me think-"

"Kevin-"

"Can you stop interrupting me? This is hard enough as it is!"

"Kevin, that's a line from Star Wars."

"Oh, well. Whatever. I'm not big into sci-fi."

Arnold sighed, mashing his palm against his forehead.

"It just made me think, that's all. When you love someone, you just know. Someone comes along and it's like they were meant to be there all along. Like there's a Lionel McKinley-shaped hole in my heart."

"Wait a minute," Arnold said, "You _like _Elder McKinley? As in, _like-like_? As in... Han Solo and Luke Skywalker in the ice storm on _Hoth_ like-like?"

"What did I _just _say about the Star Wars analogies?"

"You're a _gay_?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I'm not sure."

Arnold tilted his head to one side, squinting at him. Kevin was suddenly acutely aware of himself, quivery, sweaty.

"He likes me too, Arnold," Kevin breathed, "He loves me. And I love everything about him, and I'm terrified. I know I shouldn't feel this way, and I know it's wrong, but..."

Arnold's loud laugh startled Kevin, bubbled around the small room. "_Shh_!"

"That's so _cute_! How long have you guys been – you know?" Cunningham trailed off. The fingers of his left hand curled up into a circle, and he started to push his pointer finger in and out.

"Arn! That's vulgar!"

"Answer the question!" he hissed.

"A year and a half," Kevin admitted. "A year and a half, but not really, and we didn't even – couldn't even – do anything until last week."

"Why didn't you ever tell me before?"

"Because - because it can't happen, Arnold. It just can't."

"What can't happen?"

"Us. McKinley and Price, the couple. It cannot happen."

"Why not? Who cares?"

"Too many people care, Arn, that's the problem. There are people who would make things..." Kevin paused, suddenly overwhelmed. "They would make things difficult for us. Like my parents, for instance. They don't know. They don't know about any of this. They think I'm going to go to BYU and marry a nice girl and have seventeen children. Heck, they'd be disappointed if I didn't do all that."

"Well, wouldn't Elder McKinley be disappointed?"

"I... I would lose everything. I mean, I may not be a Latter-day Saint, but I'm talking about my whole family, all my old friends, future jobs, education."

Arnold sighed, sitting down on the cot next to Kevin. He held out his hands, clapsed in two tight fists.

"Right now you're probably feeling like Alice, right? Tumbling down the rabbit hole?"

"Kind of, yeah. That's a good way of putting it."

"It's in your eyes. You have the look of a man who accepts what he sees because he's expecting to wake up. Ironically, this is not far from the truth. Do you believe in fate, Kevin Price?"

"...No?"

"Why not?"

"Because I, uh, uh, I don't like the idea that I'm not in control of my life."

Arnold licked his lips. "Let me tell you why you're here. You're here because you know something. What you know, you can't explain. But you feel it. You felt it your entire life. That there's something wrong with the world. You don't know what it is, but it's there. Like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Gay thoughts?"

"Kevin, this is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back." Arnold thrust out his fists again. "In this hand, there's a blue pill – blue for sad – and if you take it, the story ends. You believe whatever your parents tell you. You take the red pill – red for Elder McKinley, because of his hair, right? - and you stay in Wonderland."

The laugh that escaped from Kevin was sad, quiet. "I'm not in Wonderland, Arn. But come on, let's get back to reality."

"Red or blue?"

"You're getting married in an hour, buddy, we don't have time for this."

"Think about it." Arnold relaxed his fists, leaning over to pat his companion's knee. "Just... think about it."

* * *

><p>"It's just that – there's not a second, not a single second of my day when I'm not, you know, thinking about <em>it<em>," Matthew stammered, clearly embarrassed. Kevin watched as his eldest son kneaded the fabric of his bedspread nervously. "And I can't control it, like, at all, and I wish it would just stop. Like, Lindsey Parker was wearing this skirt today, in English class, and I – I just..."

"Oh, I know, Matthew," Kevin nodded. "Believe me. I was a fourteen-year-old boy once, too."

"_Gross, D_ad."

"Let me guess: everyone tells you to just stop thinking about it? They tell you to turn it off?"

Kevin chuckled a little. Matthew raised an eyebrow, obviously confused.

"Sorry. Mission joke."

"Right."

"What I'm trying to say is that I know exactly what it's like. I know how much pressure they put on you guys to be _pure _and to avoid _lust –_ just look at your mother's books, right?"

"Exactly! I mean, not to knock Mom or anything, but yeah, her books are really, like, anti-anything to do with... doing it. And I get that she's trying to stop people from being overly slutty, but it's just like – okay! I get it! But I can't stop _thinking _about it no matter what I do!"

"Do you wanna know something, Matthew? I have a feeling that if your mother were the one having this talk with you, she'd be throwing around a lot of hyperbole about how that's all evil and sinful. But that – that's not true."

"What do you mean?"

"_It_ is a good thing. Better than good. It's – how to word this - something incredible. It'll blow your mind. And it's better if you wait, let me tell you, and it's much, much better with someone you love. I'm glad I waited, because, after all that waiting, it was really special."

"You mean like, with Mom?"

"Mom?"

"You're glad you waited for Mom?"

"Yeah. Yeah, exactly."

Kevin swallowed hard, trying to banish the thoughts of Nairobi, and tangled sheets, and hot sweat. He tried instead to summon thoughts of Las Vegas, the honeymoon suite overlooking the strip, his knee against Helen's in a gondola drifting lazily through the city.

"Dad?" Kevin blinked, looking back at his son.

"Look, I just don't want you to ever see it as a bad thing, Matthew. It's healthy. It's normal. And if you look at something that's healthy and normal as, well, a 'sin,' then you'll wind up in a whole lot of trouble."

"Okay, so what am I supposed to do? Do I just keep, what did you say, 'turning it off?'"

"Lock the door next time, and be quiet. You'll get the hang of it," he said, and got up to move towards the door. He turned, pointing a finger at his son.

"Don't tell your mother I said that."

* * *

><p>It only took Kevin a few second to close the door, turn the lock, and switch on the shower. The running water would cover the sound of his voice, he reasoned, as he scrolled through the long list of names filed neatly under the contacts tab on his Blackberry. He'd synced his phone to the employee database this morning for exactly this purpose; he paused at <em>McKinley, Lionel. <em>He drew in a deep breath.

There was the dial tone.

He felt like the ground was giving out from beneath his feet, like that moment on the Funderland Express when the ride stopped, suspended in the middle of the sky, and just stood still. The long, flat dial tone. Purgatory.

"Hello?"

He could hear the water falling against his own struggling breath. That voice. He punched a couple of buttons on his phone, turning up the volume. The breathing on the other end was loud, coming through in bursts of static.

"Hello? May I ask who's calling."

"It's Kevin. Hi. I'm just calling to say hi." The words tumbled out, disjointed.

"Well, hi."

There was a short silence on the other end. Lionel's breaths were already coming more quickly, frenzied bursts of static.

"Do you – do you want to get together sometime?" Kevin asked.

"Yes."

"For lunch, I was thinking."

"Lunch sounds good."

"Yeah."

"I was thinking we could duck out tomorrow around noon. We could go to Christopher's."

"The steakhouse?"

"Right."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Kevin held his breath for a second, then began again.

""I... I, Lionel, I didn't think I would call."

"I hoped you would."

"I was just thinking about Cunningham and... god, and Nabulungi, and... and then that got me thinking about Nairobi, and-"

"I'll see you tomorrow, Kevin."

The long, flat dial tone shattered the silence. There was no sound but the water rushing by.


	4. Chapter 4

_But he headed out on Sunday_

_Said he'd come home Monday_

_I stayed up waiting_

_Anticipating and pacing _

_But he was chasing paper_

_Caught up in the game_

_That was the last I heard_

* * *

><p>"Cranberry soda, please," Kevin said, lowering his shades to nod up at the waitress. "Hold the lemon."<p>

"Yes, Mr. Price." The girl made a quick mark on her pad, ponytail whirling as she turned her head. "And for you, sir?"

"Just an ice water, please," Leo McKinley smiled. "And – sorry – do you think I could get a straw, too?"

"Certainly, sir. I'll be by with your drinks in just a moment."

Kevin reclined in his chair, balancing the menu between his lap and the table. In his periphery, he could make out Lionel, arms folded, staring around at the restaurant's lavish decor. The awe in his eyes was a familiar gleam.

"You ever been here before?" Kevin asked. Lionel drew his eyes down from the chandelier, shrugging with a nonchalance that betrayed his nervousness.

"I don't know." He furrowed his brow. "Or maybe I just don't remember. Seems like I haven't been in Salt Lake in ages."

Kevin grinned, gesturing up at the vaulted ceiling. "Buddy of mine owns this place – Severn Clark, he's been in hospitality here in Salt Lake as long as anybody. Worked with me to rebuild Funderland from the ground up. We just opened a new bandshell facility and we're already looking at expand throughout the corridor and put up a park in Boise. We've been talking to our backers and there's huge potential for a very receptive..."

"Kevin Price," Lionel laughed, shaking his head. "Still the world's most unironic surname."

"Hey, now," Kevin chuckled, pointing a finger across the table. "I still tithe ten percent."

"Oh, I know. I'm on your payroll, remember? Come on, we have every other day of the week to talk business. I haven't seen you in twenty years. How-"

"Excuse me, sirs, I have one cranberry soda, no lemon..." The waitress interrupted Lionel, setting two cold glasses on the table. "And there's one ice water, with your straw, sir."

"Thank you," McKinley nodded.

"May I suggest one of our appetizers this afternoon?"

"I... I think we're all right." Kevin glanced across the table, took McKinley's affirmative nod. "Sirloin steak, medium rare."

"Certainly, Mr. Price. And for your guest?"

McKinley was leaning over the menu, his brow furrowed. "Um... I guess I'll take the spinach salad please, thank you."

"Will that be all, sir?"

"Now, hold on one second." Kevin leaned across the table, taking hold of his drink. "Leo, are you sure you just want a salad?"

"Kevin, honestly, I'm fine."

"You should at least try their lobster. They do a superb seafood platter here. You know what they say, right? You can order lobster at a steakhouse, but never order steak at a lobster shack."

"Kevin, I – I'm, uh, I'm..." Lionel stammered. "Look, I'm vegan. The spinach salad is... it's wonderful, thank you."

A breathy laugh of disbelief practically fell out of Kevin's open mouth as he glanced from McKinley to the waitress, who was nervously chewing on her bottom lip. "You're vegan?"

"Sure am."

Kevin stared, slackjawed, at his friend. The waitress chewed on her pencil, nervously glancing from Kevin to Lionel. "We... we have a few vegan options..."

"Lionel," Kevin interrupted her, "Why on God's green earth did you let me take you to a _steakhouse_?"

Lionel opened and closed his mouth, starting and stopping in a futile attempt to answer. He looked up to meet Kevin's gaze, pursed his lips together, and then burst out into hysterical laughter. Kevin brought a hand up to his own mouth to keep from laughing – at McKinley, at the situation, he wasn't sure – but within seconds, his shoulders were shaking with uncontained laughter. The waitress looked baffled.

"...So, that's a sirloin steak and a spinach salad?"

"Medium rare," Kevin gasped. "With mashed potatoes and... butter, wait, I don't want to offend the vegan..."

"Well, heck, Kevin, what else do you do when you live in Los Angeles for twenty years? You embrace every dietary fad that comes along, you take up imported physical activites."

"Wait, you don't mean..."

"Yoga practice, Kevin, and flaxseed-infused tea," McKinley chuckled, coughing into his fist. "Carob. Omega-3 enhanced organic grapefruit juice. Dabbling in Eastern mysticism. It's all part of the California dream."

The waitress had left them to their banter. Kevin reached into the pocket of his suit, still laughing

"You want to know what I did for twenty years?" Kevin said, reaching into his pocket. He withdrew his wallet and threw it across the table. McKinley fumbled for it in the air, then gripped it between his thumb and forefinger, grinning at Kevin.

"Good catch."

"After all this time, you're still trying to buy my friendship," McKinley sighed, shaking his head. "You know, it isn't that easy. I have class. I am a refined gentlemen, Kevin Price."

"No, you're a California cliche," he answered. "Better – you're vegan."

McKinley laughed, dropping the wallet on the table. "Okay, so for the past twenty years you went to Marriott, majored in finance, and launched the most profitable family entertainment chain in the Mormon corridor."

"You know, I didn't huck my wallet at you so you could admire my career." Kevin took a long, slow sip of his soda. "There are pictures inside. Kids. My kids."

"Oh, your _kids_," McKinley said. He pulled a tab, flipping through the various leather folds. "Oh, they're adorable – there's George, and that's little Andrew, what a charmer, and that must be Alexander..."

Kevin rolled his eyes. "Oh, drop it."

"Sure thing, Mr. _Price_."

"_Vegan_."

"I missed you," McKinley said. He raised a napkin to the corner of his mouth, dabbing away a bit of moisture, then lay the napkin in his lap. Price watched, suddenly restless. How was he supposed to counter that? _Yeah, missed you too. Missed you while I was raising four kids and you were running around the city of angels converting to Buddhism and yoga and soy products. _

"You know, I think..." he began, searching for words. "I think you've changed a lot."

"Oh, yes, definitely," McKinley said, quickly looking up from adjusting his napkin. "You haven't changed one bit."

"No?"

"Still busy. Too busy."

"I thrive on busy."

Lionel nodded in assent. "I know you do. Tell me about your kids. Who's this little guy?"

Price craned his head, squinting at the tiny portrait. "Oh, that's Jack. Well, John, actually. He just turned two."

"And this one is...?"

"Oh, that's my oldest, he's Matt. He's starting sophomore year in the fall. Already thinking about college and the SAT – it makes my head spin. I don't know how he does it all."

"Is he gonna go to BYU?"

"I've got a feeling he's got his eye on some places out of state."

"You don't say?" Lionel grinned. "Where does he really want to go?"

"Now that you mention it, he won't shut up about California."

"Really? Anywhere in particular?"

"Claremont McKenna ring any bells?"

"Yeah, yeah. Oh, so he's a little politician, huh? Future president."

"A little bit. He's hoping to do a mission in China, you know, take a page out of Huntsman's book."

"Does he speak Chinese?"

"About as well as you and I speak Swahili."

"You don't remember your Swahili?" McKinley feigned shock.

"Nope, but I picked up sign language."

"Really? Wow."

Kevin nodded. "Mark – the, uh, the kid in the middle there..."

"Blond?"

"Yeah. He's hearing-impaired. Bad bout of meningitis when he was six, and he's had to use a hearing aid ever since. It's easier for him if we can just, you know, sign to him. Especially when we're out running errands, right? We don't have to ask the check-out girl or the soccer coach to repeat everything twice."

"Nice." McKinley closed the wallet, sliding it across the table. "I always knew you'd be a good dad."

Kevin nearly choked on his soda. No. No, not now. Now was not the right time to remember twenty-year-old pillow talk. These were the thoughts he returned to late at night and late in the morning, when he had the bed to himself, before his Blackberry flickered to life and the house was loud with rambunctious kids. Did McKinley ever worry about noisy toddlers? Had he ever changed a diaper? Did he even have a family?

"How's your wife?"

Kevin drew in a deep breath. He jerked his head upward, trying to look McKinley in the eye. He couldn't do it.

"We have one spinach salad, and here's your sirloin steak, Mr. Price. Medium-rare, as you requested. Can I offer you any fresh pepper?"

He was aware that he was catatonic, and somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind he was pushing himself to answer yes, to nod politely and grin at the waitress. He didn't respond. Couldn't. It was as though he was incapacitated.

"I, uh, I don't think he wants any pepper. Thanks."

A few moments passed. When he felt McKinley's hand on his forearm, he jerked back reflexively.

"Kevin, I..."

"Excuse me."

He stood up abruptly, pushed in his chair, and swivelled on his heel. If he could just find the men's room, he thought to himself, and splash some cold water on his face, and take a few deep breaths, he would be all right. He would be fine.

* * *

><p>McKinley didn't even wait for the door to slam shut before he started kissing Kevin. He shoved him up against the door, switched the lock shut, pressed their bodies together. Kevin barely even breathed between kisses, dizzy with lust. He let his body go limp against the door, let McKinley fumble around at the clasp of his zipper.<p>

It occurred to him as McKinley was planting kisses down his chest that they might get caught. His untouched sirloin steak was getting cold at their table. His Blackberry would be going off in the pocket of the jacket he'd slung over his chair. But there were fingers undoing his belt buckle, yanking down his zipper, palming him through his briefs. Nothing else mattered.

He buried his hands in McKinley's red hair, gripping thatches of it with all his might to keep himself from crying out. As hard as he tried, a breathy moan escaped from the back of his throat. He screwed his eyes shut, tilting his head against the door as he heard McKinley laugh in his lap.

"You missed me," McKinley whispered. Kevin didn't look down; he didn't even open his eyes. He just nodded and let out another halted breath.

"You want me, right?"

"I needed you," he whispered. "And I couldn't... could never... have you..."

"Kevin," McKinley moaned. "Kevin, you have me. Right now. You have me. I'm all yours. Come on, Kevin. Kevin!"

He opened his eyes.

* * *

><p>A quick glance at the clock told him it was 3:04 AM. He could feel the extra weight in bed next to him, and hear her soft, easy breathing. Trying not to make a sound, he slid his fingers past the waistband of his pajama pants. He cringed.<p>

Kevin padded softly to the bathroom and slowly opened and closed the door. Within moments, he was under a stream of freezing water, pouring soap into a washcloth, and scrubbing at his hips. How embarrassing. He hadn't even touched McKinley at lunch, and he still couldn't keep his dreams from going to inappropriate places. He would give anything, anything, not to think these thoughts, not to answer for stained sheets and late-night cold showers. How lewd. How wrong. How unspeakably vulgar.

When he walked back into the bedroom, toweling himself off, he caught a glimpse of his wife, fast asleep – or perhaps just pretending to be. She slept with her back to him, her knees tucked up to her chin, her arms wrapped around her body.

As he turned to the closet to pick up a fresh pair of pajamas, the realization struck him: he and Helen were broken beyond repair.


	5. Chapter 5

_Oh, my God,_

_I feel it in the air_

_Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare_

_Honey, I'm on fire_

_I feel it everywhere_

_Nothing scares me any more_

* * *

><p>"Lionel. Can I have a word?"<p>

A few heads turned. Kevin Price didn't make a habit of mingling among the plebeians. He didn't make a habit of leaving his office, with the occasional exception of a ribbon-cutting here or a photo-op there. Even more heads turned as McKinley nodded slowly and threw his remaining belongings into his bag. He tilted a little as he stood, simultaneously trying to sling his enormous duffel over his shoulder. He'd gotten skinny, Kevin noticed.

McKinley's new gauntness was only the first of many things Kevin observed on their silent walk to the parking lot. Between broad grins at parkgoers and nods at vendors, he stole glances at McKinley's face. He saw dark circles under McKinley's bright blue eyes, little flaps of skin on his dry lips. He slowed his brisk gait more than a few times to let McKinley catch up.

"You look a little tired," he said. Small talk. McKinley only nodded.

"I am."

"Long day?"

"Long... long year."

They didn't speak again as they wound through the park. When Kevin finally stopped, they were alone in the parking lot reserved for senior staff. Most had gone home. It was late in the day. Kevin raised his eyes to the sky, drew in a deep breath, and spoke.

"I need you to leave the park."

"Whoa." McKinley's duffel bag fell from his side, hitting the concrete with a loud smack.

"I'll... I'll put together a nice severance package for you. You can head back to California."

"No."

"Everybody wins."

"No," McKinley repeated, desperation growing in his voice. "No, you can't do this to me."

"I have a family." Kevin lowered his voice. "A wife."

"And that's _my_ problem?"

Tears were welling up in McKinley's eyes. Kevin swallowed hard. He hadn't forgotten that McKinley was a crier, hopelessly sensitive to even the most minute tragedies.

"We talk about the power of temptation a lot, you know, and you... having you here... it's just..."

McKinley's jaw dropped. Kevin could see that he was quaking, his face growing bright red. He was walking towards him, raising a hand as if he were about to slap him. In seconds, Kevin was pressed up against his Escalade, reaching slowly for the door. McKinley brought his hand down, pointed a finger, and pressed it forcefully into Kevin's chest.

"I didn't come here," McKinley gasped, "to _fuck _you."

"Then why did you come, huh?" Kevin's own voice was rising. "You were just dying to be a children's entertainer forty miles out of Salt Lake City?"

McKinley lowered his hand, steeled his jaw, and drew in a deep breath. "They buried my boyfriend last month," he said. "I wasn't invited to the funeral."

"Leo," Kevin breathed. McKinley's eyes fluttered shut as Kevin reached for his hand, and tentatively took it. "I'm sorry."

After a few moments, McKinley began again, his eyes still closed. "We met at church, actually. In... in, like, a support group, for... for people like us. Nobody knew."

"You... you, uh, weren't scared of what people would say?"

He shrugged. "I gave up. I was done, Kevin, I was _done_ praying for God to crush me. I was... I was in love, finally. For the first time after..."

He opened his eyes, sighed, then looked to Kevin. He shook his head, then focused his gaze on the concrete. "Five years we were together. And he, he..."

Kevin could see McKinley's chest rising and falling rapidly, could hear the frantic tone in his voice. He squeezed McKinley's hand, laid his other hand on McKinley's shoulder. "You don't have to say it. I can guess."

"They blamed me."

"It wasn't your fault."

"They blamed me. They all blamed me. I didn't... I couldn't... there was literally nowhere else I could even think of going, Kevin."

Tears were swimming in his eyes now, and his lips were quivering as much as his voice. He inhaled again, deep, and shuddered. "You do not know what it's like to live honestly."

There was a pause. Kevin parted his lips, started to apologize, then winced as a sharp, shrill ringing broke the silence.

"Sorry, that's my phone."

McKinley wrenched away from Kevin. "No. No way. No _fucking_ way, Kevin Price."

He didn't miss the inflection on his surname, the way spit flew past McKinley's lips.

"I have to take this. It's Helen. Just, uh, quiet down for a second."

"No!" McKinley shouted. "No, you can't do this to me! You can't pretend I'm not here!"

He honestly didn't know what to do. The Blackberry buzzed in his hand, and his finger hovered above the screen.

"You cannot pay me off!" screamed McKinley. "I won't let you! I won't let you hide who you are, or pretend we never happened! I am _here_! I'm not going to go away!"

"McKinley, please, just give me one second..."

He let out a wordless shout and charged at Price, grabbed his wrist, shook it. "Let it go to voicemail!"

"I can't!"

"Turn it _off_!" Kevin lost his grip on the phone and it fell, tumbling over McKinley's elbow, and shattered on the concrete. There was silence.

And then, in an instant, there were chapped lips on his, and skinny arms pinning his own against the window of his truck. He swore he felt McKinley chewing on his lip, running his tongue insistently over his own gritted teeth. There was a knee wedging itself into the gap between Kevin's legs, moving rigorously up and down.

He kissed back.

His hands made their way to the space above McKinley's hips and his fingers dug in, pulled McKinley – Lionel, Leo, _his_ Leo – closer to him. He gasped for breath, and Leo's tongue darted in, circling his in a hot, slippery rush.

It didn't feel good. Not this time around. It had never felt good, exactly, stealing kisses under fear of excommunication or slipping coded love notes into dry Bible lessons. The secrecy and the shame hadn't vanished; Kevin could feel his cheeks getting hotter. At least then they had each other. They hadn't had anger, or any of this bitterness, this resentment.

Both hands were moving along the hem of McKinley's shirt now, pulling the soft fabric up. He couldn't think straight. He was dizzy, dizzy and...

"Fuck."

Kevin blinked, watching in dazed helplessness as McKinley staggered backward, gagged, and fell to the concrete.

He vomited.

He knew what to do. He'd done it before, in the middle of the night when McKinley woke from anxious nightmares. It was no less stressful then than it was now. Kevin dropped to his knees, pushed McKinley's hair away from his sweaty forehead, and dug in his pocket for a handkerchief.

"Let's get you to a park medic."

"Take me home."

"Are you sure?"

"Use my car."

* * *

><p>McKinley's car was an immaculately kept clunker the colour of a chain smoker's phlegm. Kevin kept one hand on the wheel and one hand on McKinley's shoulder for the entire long, silent ride home, moving only to shift gears and signal. When they finally came to a stop outside McKinley's redbrick apartment building, Kevin's hand didn't move. It was a long time before he spoke.<p>

"Uh... will you be okay?"

"Maybe." McKinley shrugged. "I don't really know."

"If you're not feeling well, you don't have to come into work tomorrow."

"Are you still trying to get me fired?"

"No."

McKinley sighed and looked down into his lap, where his thin hands were folded over his stomach.

"I'm not a homewrecker," he said, quietly.

"I know you're not."

"But you know I came here for you."

Kevin nodded. "Well, yeah, I kind of gathered that. Showing up at my park was a pretty deliberate move."

McKinley chuckled a little, nodded. "I needed to see you again. One more time... oh, I don't know."

"We can't go back to nineteen, Leo."

He smiled faintly. "I wish we could."

"But we can't."

McKinley wriggled away from Kevin's hand, gently nudging it off his shoulder. "Nineteen was... it was important to me. I need it. Or... or something like it."

"I can't give you that. You know I can't."

McKinley turned his head to the side, nodding slowly. He was working hard to hold Kevin's gaze, his chest softly rising and falling. His mouth was slightly open, as if he had something to say but he wasn't quite sure how to say it.

"Don't... Leo, don't do this to me."

"I'm not feeling well, Kevin."

Kevin nodded. "Just go inside and get a good night's sleep, all right? We can talk later."

He shook his head briskly. "No, no, no," he said. "It's not just that. I'm not feeling well. I'm not well. That's why I came back."

Kevin took his hand, squeezed it hard. "Look, I know. I know how much it hurts. It's damn, damn hard to keep this secret. But I have – Leo, I have four kids. I have a batshit insane wife I have to take care of and I can't go back to nineteen no matter how much it hurts."

"You," he said, "Have _no_ idea how much it hurts."

Kevin fell back against the driver's seat, cocked his head to one side. "I think I do."

"You were lonely."

"Yes."

"You needed someone – you needed anyone."

Kevin nodded. "What are you saying?"

He felt the small squeeze of Leo's hand in his as McKinley breathed deep, then exhaled. His voice came out small and quiet.

"Ten years ago," he whispered. "I was so, so lonely. I missed you, Kevin. Fuck you. I missed you more than you'll ever know, and I let this man... inside me... for, for _half _a second..."

Kevin's heart was loud in his chest, and the sweat at the nape of his neck was cold. McKinley's eyes searched him expectantly, begging him to understand.

"Do you know what it's like," McKinley said, "To measure your life in days?"

He let go of Kevin's hand.

"That's how much it hurts."


	6. Chapter 6

_For those who still can recall_

_The desperate colours of fall_

_The sweet caresses of May_

_Only in poems remain_

_No one recites them these days_

_For the shame_

_So what if nothing is safe?_

_So what if no one is saved?_

_No matter how sweet,_

_No matter how brave?_

_What if each to his own lonely grave?_

_I don't want to live _

_Without you_

He was still awake when Helen came in at four o'clock in the morning. Naturally, though, he faked deep sleep, laboured breathing. She slipped under the covers next to him without even removing the cotton sundress she'd worn all day. He had been unable to sleep before she'd tiptoed in, but her presence in the bed served only to solidify his anxiety. He wasn't going to sleep tonight.

Turning on his side – and away from her – he absentmindedly twisted his wedding ring. This ring had been a perfect fit once. That it had begun to pinch was inevitable, the jeweler had said last month, gesturing at little rings of gold on pristine white pillows. Fifteen years to the day they'd been sealed in the temple, they were due to exchange new rings. To renew their vows. If the ring had pinched before, it now threatened to suffocate him. Infidelity weighed heavy on his mind.

Twenty years ago, while on his mission, he'd had the misfortune of imbibing some wormy water and he'd fallen ill, violently ill, with a painful stomachache. McKinley had a year and a half of nursing college under his belt, and it was his cold compresses and medicinal teas that had kept Kevin alive. They had bonded, shared secrets, told stories to one another. One night, after clumsily mumbling a few lines of scripture, McKinley had leaned over Kevin's bed and pushed a few damp strands of hair off of his sweaty forehead. When McKinley kissed his forehead, he didn't protest. And when he didn't protest, McKinley had kissed his eyelids, the tip of his nose, his burning cheeks. His lips. Kevin had kissed back.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that today, this afternoon, when Kevin had pressed cold, wet rags to McKinley's burning face, recoiling at the wounds peppering his fair skin, he had been reminded of his own helplessness. And with full mind of the vehicle idling out front and the dinner getting cold at home, he had leaned over McKinley's bed and kissed his forehead, his eyes, his nose, his lips.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, curled on the mattress and buried in blankets. If he closed his eyes, the world was dark, quiet; he was warm. Moving was a hardship. Bury him here; carve an epitaph on the soft, white fabric and leave him until morning. For the first time in years, he wished that he was dead.

Jimmy McKinley was going to die.

The thought caught him suddenly, caused his body to seize up and his fingers to curl tightly around the sheets that he clutched in his sweaty palms. Contorting his face and closing his eyes could not stop the sorrow escaping in a hot, slippery rush. He was leaving.

And she... she was gone. They had lost her before they had even known who she was.

He had been right here, only a few months ago - the weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds, he could count them, count backwards to the moment when he had held Helen, positively glowing. She had moved around the house enveloped in an ethereal light, a hand over her convex stomach and a gentle smile on her face. She had smiled, laughed; he would catch her from behind, kiss her on the cheek, bend down to whisper words to her belly.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months later, red blood on white tile - and she was gone. His wife had packed a suitcase and boarded a flight to a small town on the coast of Oregon to walk on beaches barefoot, unencumbered. She had been violent, angrier than he had ever seen her, until one day he tried to lay hands on her, bless her, and she reared back, screaming, hurling books at him. Seconds passed and she stopped, shock written plain on their faces, and then she fell to the floor and he rushed over, holding her.

"Go," he had said, thumbing away the tears that pooled under her eyes. "Get better."

So she went. He stayed behind, with a promise to look after the children, to make their sandwiches. pick them up from school. And supervise their homework. He could push her to the back of his mind. He could pretend she had never existed and, to be fair, she never really had. It was an easy enough task when he was mopping Jack's peas off the floor, or quizzing Matt on vocabulary or sliding Luke's finger along a map of Africa from Algeria to Egypt, Uganda to Malawi.

He emerged from under the covers, bleary-eyed, and stared at the clock. It was a quarter to six. It couldn't be a quarter to six. The seconds roared past him, agonizingly and unrelentingly rapid. Just a few hours prior, he had closed Matt's door, given Mark a hug, handed Luke his plush giraffe and a sippy-cup of warm milk, and kissed Jack gently on the nose before laying him down in his crib. Eternity had passed since now and then; he was still awake. His work was not yet finished.

There was one child that he hadn't put to bed. There was one child he would never get to sing to sleep, one child he would never rock reassuringly to keep the bad dreams away. He would never teach her to ride a bike, never build her a dollhouse, never slip quarters under her pillow in return for her lost teeth. He would never hold her hand on the walk to school, never see her coming down the stairs in a taffeta prom dress, never link his elbow in hers and walk her down the aisle. He had wanted all those things for his little girl. He had loved her fiercely.

She was buried before they met her.

Outside his closed door, across the hallway, three rooms down, they had painted a small nursery, light pink with lemon accents, Helen's choice. There had been a painting on the wall in the same colours, four letters surrounded by fluffy yellow ducklings and lavender bunnies: E-M-M-A.

Emma, the little girl for whom they made a home. The little girl for whom they had wished and hoped and prayed, and prayed, and prayed. The little girl they had loved.

His head fell back onto the pillow, and he stared blankly at the swirls, skips, and imperfections on their white ceiling. He was in a small box, a vast constellation of white and grey stretching as far as his eyes could see.

She was out there, somewhere, and the love of his life was about to join her in the vast, quiet dark.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I want to thank everybody for sticking with this story. I know this particular iron has been in the fire for a long, long time and I can't tell you how much I appreciate your reviews and your feedback. Thank you!**

* * *

><p><em>Leave me out with the waste<em>

_This is not what I do_

_It's the wrong kind of place _

_To be cheating on you_

_It's the wrong time_

_She's pulling me through_

_It's a small crime_

_And I got no excuse_

_And is that all right?_

_Give my gun away when it's loaded_

_Is that all right?_

_If you don't shoot it_

_How am I supposed to hold it?_

* * *

><p>When his eyes flickered open at 4:30, blinking out dark water, he was surprised to hear soft, unencumbered breathing. Could it be? He rolled onto his back and cast a quick glance to the side. Helen lay next to him. For once, at least as far as he could tell, she was not feigning sleep. The second pillow was warm - <em>he<em> was the insomniac. How unusual.

Kevin folded his fingers over his stomach and closed his eyes. A deep breath in, and then an exhalation. If he cleared his mind, he reasoned, and thought of nothing but taking in oxygen, he would necessarily slip back into sleep. And so he breathed in, then out, all the while trying his hardest to think of nothing at all.

After what felt like a few minutes, he opened one bleary eye and shot a glance at the clock.

4:32.

He uttered a short, sharp swear word into the darkness and then threw the blanket back.

Under the searing hot jets of the shower, he bit his lip to keep from screaming.

* * *

><p>There were certain cliches that came with suburban living and on days like today, it was so much easier to fully commit to parody. Saturday in Sandy called for neatly pressed shorts – in a modest khaki, of course. Anything more colourful screamed tacky. A equally tasteful polo shirt would complete the look. He'd selected a dark green today, more fatherly than flamboyant. His sunglasses and watch were necessary accoutrements for greeting the neighbourhood as he sprayed cold water over his broad green lawn.<p>

Rolling up the hose, he took a step back to admire his handiwork. From the street, his home was a masterpiece of intricate stonework and conscientious gardening. Not even the wide bay windows revealed the imperfection within: Helen's manic, cluttered workspace, for instance, or the small, empty room on the second floor with its naked pink walls. Imagining the room in his mind's eye, he drew in an uneasy breath. He made his way up the cobblestones. He hesitated.

Over the past few months, he'd entertained fantasies, if only for a few minutes at a time, of throwing a suitcase in his trunk. He had envisioned the things he would bring along, and the places he would visit. Sometimes, but not often, he imagined floating the idea of taking a "solitary vacation" without his family. But never once in his life, not even while staring down the barrel of a gun in Uganda, had he so seriously contemplated, well, leaving. Perhaps "quitting" was a better word. It was so tempting, and yet so unthinkable. He couldn't serve his family a letter of resignation, give his two weeks' notice. He hated to think what filing for divorce would do to Helen, let alone their children. And, really, what grounds did he have? He would have to admit adultery or... or...

He closed his eyes, drew in a long, deep breath, and swung open the front door. He had been alone with his thoughts for too long. He needed something, anything to do; hands on a broom, fingers squeezing out a sponge. Not only was cleanliness next to godliness but, Kevin had learned, compulsively performing chore after chore was an extremely effective method of emotional suppression.

Penitence, he thought to himself, as he cleared the cutting board and brought the knife down on a neat row of bell peppers. Frittatas were his one and only breakfast speciality, and maybe, just maybe, this meal would be enough to endear himself once more to his family, enough to ward off suspicion. Enough, even, to convince himself that he was still in control of his circumstances.

He sighed, cracked an egg open, and sent it sizzling into the frying pan.

"What on earth are you doing?"

He turned. Helen stood in the doorway, a deep crease forming on her forehead. Despite her neat bun, suspended with hairspray, and her freshly ironed dress, she looked exhausted.

"Morning, bunny." He tried to muster a smile.

"You're up awfully early," she called. She was already rolling her eyes and turning on her heel. Her office was only a short way down the hall, and he knew that once she went in...

"Helen! Wait - I'm taking over your breakfast duties," he chirped. "God knows you've got enough on your plate – I figured I could, you know, add a frittata. To your plate."

She peered through the door, raising an eyebrow. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

He sighed, abandoning any guise of cheerfulness. "You're one to talk."

"I work best in the evenings."

"Right. Okay." He threw up his hands. "I woke up early. It was a fluke. I woke up too early, and then I had trouble getting back to sleep."

She hummed in response, and leaned her thin frame against the doorjamb. "What is this really about?"

Kevin sighed, turning back to the stove, and ran his spatula under the runny egg.

"You're never up before dawn. Well, you're never this _productive_ before dawn. Watering the lawn?" She paused, cocking her head to the side. "Frittatas?"

The thin line of her mouth, he noticed, curved decidedly downward. "Look," he said, desperate, "You – you don't need to turn this into an interrogation. I just wanted to make breakfast for you and the kids."

"Why?"

"It's breakfast, Helen. You don't need to ask _why_."

She pursed her lips, and he couldn't help but notice the deepening crease of her worried, furrowed brow. It was as though she wasn't sure whether to be appreciative of the gesture or wary of it. She was not a woman who trusted. She especially didn't trust him; that much was plainly obvious. And to see him up at 6:30 on a Saturday morning, chopping vegetables with a grin on his face probably numbered among the most bizarre things that she had observed that week. Obsessive-compulsive homemaking was her most reliable method of lie-telling, after all. She could probably smell the falsehood on him, too.

"Look, I just wanted to give you a day off. I'm making breakfast. I'll chauffeur the kids around all day. You can have the house to yourself."

"I don't need the house to myself."

"It'll be quiet. You can write."

She chewed on her lip, indecisive. Finally, she leveled her gaze at him and spoke: "Matthew has an SAT prep course at the U. That starts at noon and ends at 3:30. Mark and Luke's soccer practice starts at 10:00. Don't forget the sunblock, and _don't_ forget Luke's hearing aid. Jack will stay with me."

"Are you sure? I can rig the booster seat, you know. It's really not that much trouble..."

She glanced over his shoulder and out at the driveway before responding, shaking her head rapidly as she did. "Kevin, don't be ridiculous."

"It's got a five-star safety rating."

"I – I know, but nobody drives their kids to soccer practice in an..."

"SUV?"

"A_ Cadillac_." Her arms were firmly crossed over her chest now, and wisps of blonde were beginning to escape from her stiff bun.

"We are not having this fight again. Do you know how many lunch meetings I go to? They're a part of the job, Helen – I can't walk out of a four-course meal with a half dozen of my colleagues and ask the valet to bring around your mini-"

She raised her eyebrows insistently.

"...Your minivan. No, Helen, I'm not taking your minivan."

Her arms dropped to her sides and Kevin began to cross the kitchen floor. "There's one other thing - I was thinking I could drop the kids off with the Petersens tonight. I'm sure Marge wouldn't mind looking after them again. You and I could use some time together, couldn't we? We could have a nice night in, rent a movie..."

He swallowed, unable to finish the sentence. Helen's mouth fell open, and she sighed deeply. "Kevin, no. I'll... I'll be in the middle of a draft. You _know_ I work best when it's dark out."

"Come on. It'll just be a few hours."

"No," she answered bluntly. "No, because I'm already behind on this release. No, because I have to do the grocery shopping..."

"Bunny, I can pick up the groceries while the kids are at camp. It's not a problem."

"No, but... I have to weed the garden, and wipe down the windows, run a net through the pool..."

She trailed off, then stared up at him.

"Helen, can I ask you something?" He put a hand on her shoulder. In her eyes was something like fear. He breathed in, deep: "Why don't we ever have sex any more?"

"What a ridiculous question," she spat. Her entire body was trembling.

"Is it me? Are you..." He swallowed, reading the crackling in her eyes, and began again. "Are you tired of me?"

Her chest heaved, and she shrank away from him. "Stop. Just – just stop, Kevin. I do not want to talk about this right now. I'm _busy. _I'm so busy, and it's so difficult. It's so, so difficult."

"What's so, so difficult?"

"Oh, where do I begin?" she said. "Everything. All of it. _You_. You are _difficult_, Kevin Price."

She swivelled out of his grasp. He closed his eyes, then slowly raised his fingers to his temples. He began massaging slow, small somewhere far down the hallway, he heard a door slam. A few seconds later, the unmistakable hum of a computer booting echoed through the house.

* * *

><p>It was just after noon when Kevin pulled onto the cramped side street where McKinley lived. These were old apartment buildings, built in the 1960s and packed together for blocks on end. The units here were popular among students; that McKinley lived here was more an indication of poverty than anything else. Pulling close to the curb in his Escalade, already the subject of so much controversy at home, he felt embarrassingly out of place. He twisted his keys in the ignition and yanked back the lever, then leaned forward. He let his forehead fall against the hard, lacquered wood of the against the steering wheel and screwed his eyes shut.<p>

No more pretending. At the kitchen table this morning, standing by the field at soccer practice, and even kissing Matt goodbye at the U, he had been acting. Jack, dozing in his booster seat, was too young to judge him. And too sleepy, at any rate. He wouldn't see or hear his father crumpled in half, sobbing sloppily in the front seat of his stupid, ridiculous, overindulgent Cadillac.

After a few minutes, Kevin became aware of a knocking near his left ear, growing louder and more insistent. He lifted his head, wiping his face with the heel of his hand.

When he turned, tears sprang back to his eyes. Leaning up against his window, knuckles rapping on the glass, was a boy, young, no more than eighteen or nineteen, wearing – oh, God – a white button-down, a dark blue tie, and, unmistakably, a nametag. Elder Witt, Kevin read. Witt's partner – his _partner_ – lingered a few feet behind him.

"Are you okay?" Elder Witt mouthed. Kevin didn't respond, didn't even nod, just stared blankly at him while sobs wracked his own body. The other boy was taller, and Witt, at the window, had a shock of bright red, curly hair, a smattering of freckles.

"Do you need help?" he yelled, the glass muffling the sound.

Kevin's mouth fell open. He could do no more than shoot the kid a long, desperate glance. Witt's partner stepped up to the glass – Elder Kingston, Kevin noted – and knocked on the glass. Witt shot a sidelong glare at his partner, then placed a hand on his friend's fist.

"We're sorry we bothered you, sir." Witt nodded, then stepped back, still gripping Kingston's hand tightly. Kevin's eyes fluttered shut and he began to shake his head. One hand reached for the dashboard, jamming a button. His window rolled down.

"G-guys," Kevin stammered. "I – I just... I'm sorry, it's been..."

Kingston was tugging Witt back, bending next to the window so his face was level with Kevin's. "Yes, sir?"

"...a hard week, it's been – it's been a hard few days. My friend... this, this friend of mine, he... my, he was... we did our mission... together..."

When the boys nodded in unison, Kevin's hand flew to his mouth to strangle a sob.

"Your friend – is he okay?" Kingston asked, genuine concern in his voice.

"No. No, he... he's sick. He's very sick."

Their faces fell; Kevin could swear he saw Kingston's hand tighten around Witt's.

"He lives here, and I came... I don't know, I wanted to – to talk to him, you know, because I don't know... I don't know if he has much time left, and..."

Witt's hand left Kingston's and rested on door of Kevin's car. "Is it all right if we pray for you, Mister...?"

"Price."

"Mister Price."

Kevin nodded, and bowed his head. Over his shoulder, he heard Kingston, the tall one, begin: "_Dear Heavenly Father, we ask you to comfort Mr. Price, and we pray that your hand of healing be upon his friend_..."

"Mr. Price," interjected Witt. "What is your friend's name?"

His mouth began to form the first syllable when a sob leapt out of his throat. In an instant, his forehead was against the steering wheel once more. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and then one small squeeze of reassurance.

The prayer continued.

* * *

><p>Kevin slowly mounted the grimy steps, one hand on the guard rail and the other arm supporting Jack. It had been just over a week since he had last been to McKinley's apartment, and the memory seared. Last week, he had parked his car on this side street at five o'clock in the afternoon. He had let McKinley lead him by the hand up these stairs. In his sparse kitchenette, Lionel had poured Kevin a tall glass of water. When a truck had rattled by on the street below, startling Kevin and causing his hand to shake and water to dribble down his chin, Lionel had thumbed it away. His face had been so close and Kevin couldn't resist tilting forward and... kissing...<p>

As he knocked on the door of Lionel's unit, he tried to banish the memory. They had stopped just short of making love. When Kevin's hands slung low around Lionel's hips had collided with something that felt like a bandage, he had stopped moving, letting out a deep breath against the dry skin of McKinley's shoulder.

McKinley had tilted his head and whispered into Kevin's ear, "You don't have to."

Kevin nodded in reply, then planted a kiss against his shoulder. A little while later, he left. He was home by supper.

He had justified this second trip in his own mind as a caregiving visit. He hadn't seen McKinley at work all week – according to the employee database, he very understandably plead sick leave – and he figured he could stop by to say hello, or to take his friend out for a bite to eat.

In the back of his mind, he was also readying a promise: he wanted to help McKinley pay for treatment. If there were drugs he couldn't afford on his modest salary, Kevin wanted to bump his benefits. If there were special doctors who could ease his pain, or prolong his life, Kevin wanted McKinley to have access to them.

He knocked once, twice. "Leo?" There was no answer. Balancing Jack on his hip, he reached into his pocket, digging for the key that McKinley had given him as they'd said goodbye. He rested one hand on the doorknob, steadying it to insert the key. The knob tilted a few degrees. Kevin raised an eyebrow, then twisted the knob more deliberately. Why had McKinley left his unit unlocked?

He shoved the key back into his pocket. When he nudged the door open, he was met with a slight resistance. He glanced up – there was no chain slung in the gap between the door and the frame. He sighed, and leaned his weight on the door. There was some object – a chair, maybe? - on the other side, blocking the door. He pushed forward a few more inches, then leaned into the gap and peered inside.

He saw the arm twisted at a grotesque angle and the purple bruises blooming along his side, but it took a moment longer for him to fully register that the body lying at his feet was Lionel McKinley's.


End file.
